


Crashing Down Together

by RembrandtsWife



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 05:30:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2569913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RembrandtsWife/pseuds/RembrandtsWife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky has come a long way, but touching Steve still scares him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crashing Down Together

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this back in late September/early October and then forgot about it. Have some porn with feels. Thanks to nookienostradamus for beta.

Bucky was more afraid than he ever had been in Zola's chair. After months of living together while Bucky rebuilt himself as a person, as a roommate, as a friend to Steve, he was a few breaths away from taking the next step, to Steve's--lover? boyfriend? fella? Steve was sitting on his lap, his solid weight unbelievable, the weight of a whole world holding Bucky down, and Steve's hands--always big, but now the rest of him matched--were cupping Bucky's face, and Steve was going to kiss him. Finally! And Bucky was terrified.

Because if Steve kissed him, he would want to kiss back. He would want to touch this strong, golden body he remembered in vivid, startling fragments, against a background of smoke and grime and bloodied earth. He would want to pull Steve closer, to close the careful distance between them so that they were welded together from mouth to knee. And no matter how long he tried to hold out, sooner or later he would touch Steve with both hands, and then it would be over.

Steve's lips brushed over his: dry, firm, a hint of cinnamon and coffee on his breath, and Bucky shuddered and jerked his face away.

Steve was on his feet at once, almost upending the coffee table in his haste to give Bucky room. He held up his hands. "I'm sorry, Buck, I'm sorry--"

"Christ, Steve, you don't even know what you did!"

Bucky took a deep breath, let it out, drew another, running his hands through his hair. Both hands, and he looked down at them, letting his hair fall forward again and hide the scowl. "You didn't do anything, anyway. It was me."

Steve backed away and sat down in the armchair, posture loose, hands clasped between his knees. Big brown leather armchair, old-fashioned, comforting. "Tell me what's wrong," he said. His voice stroked Bucky's fear like a gentle hand on a dog's back.

Yes. No. Don't feel. Don't remember. No. Yes. The hours with Sam, Steve's friend, the man with wings, the Falcon; with the therapist Sam had recommended. The detox from all the drugs Hydra had used on him. The slow introduction and adjustment of antidepressants, anti-anxiety medications. The long nights lying awake alone, shivering no matter how warm the room; the long months before he felt safe sleeping beside Steve, sharing a bed like they had years ago. All of that charged Bucky's chest, his throat. It was a long moment before he could clear it all away and force out the words, "Like I said, it's me." He held out his hands.

Steve looked at his hands, blankly. As usual, Bucky was wearing a long-sleeved shirt. He had been indoors all day and had finally gotten used to going without the gloves that masked the difference in his hands. One flesh hand, one metal, mismatched, precisely matched, extended from dark green sleeves. Steve looked, uncomprehending. Bucky's fingers curled into fists.

"This hand, Steve. This arm." Not his hand, his arm--not ever, really. A parasite attached to his body, his soul. "How can I touch you with this?" His left hand snapped open, a sharp inhuman motion like the flicking of a switchblade.

Steve reached out and took Bucky's hand. His fingers curled too firmly, too certainly, for Bucky to pull away. "Like this." Steve slid forward, landing on his knees with Bucky's left hand raised to his lips. "Just like this."

Bucky had only crude sensation in the left arm. His motor control was perfect, mechanically precise; his sensorium, limited to heat and cold, pressure, malfunction. Stark had tinkered with it a bit but eventually thrown his tools over his shoulder and said, muttering most of it, that Hydra must have had more access to alien tech than they thought, and the best he could offer Bucky was something lighter-weight that was nearly, *nearly* as good.

So how come Steve's lips on his knuckles made him shiver? He reached for Steve with the other hand, which came to rest on one broad shoulder. Steve was wearing only an undershirt and sweatpants; his skin was impossibly warm and smooth beneath the thin white cotton. Bucky wanted to touch everywhere, if only he could trust Steve, trust the arm, trust himself--

Steve shuffled forward on his knees so that he was between Bucky's spread legs, close enough to wrap his arms around Bucky's waist and draw him into a hug. That's all it was, a hug, and Bucky dropped his head onto Steve's shoulder and carefully wrapped both arms around his friend. Steve murmured something but didn't move, only squeezed gently. 

When Bucky let go, Steve leaned back and reached for the hem of his undershirt. "I'm gonna take my shirt off, Buck. Can I take yours off, too?"

Bucky bit his lip, but nodded. He'd seen Steve in nothing but his drawers since they'd been living together, but he hadn't showed a lot of skin himself. At first it had been hard even to let his doctors examine him. When he'd given in to Stark's prodding and let him look at the arm, Stark had unabashedly taken off his t-shirt before getting to work. He hadn't said anything, but it wasn't necessary. Stark was around fifty years old and not a supersoldier. He looked a lot younger than a fifty-year-old from Bucky's day, but he'd taken a lot of beatings of one kind and another. They'd all left scars, especially the arc reactor, which had left a mess of red raised tissue over Stark's sternum that could compete with Bucky's own. The second time Bucky came down to the lab, he'd stripped off his shirt, too. Stark had grinned and gone to work. 

Naked to the waist, Steve defied words. He glowed white and gold, like a statue of a Greek god come to life. Bucky wanted to touch and at the same time had the absurd idea that if he did, he'd burn up, like a moth finally getting into the flame. He sat still and hopeful as Steve took hold of his long-sleeved shirt by the collar and began to tug it upward.

He raised his arms and the shirt rose with them, Steve pushing it up with one hand and drawing off the right sleeve, then the left. Bucky shook his head as it popped free of the collar and made himself lie back on the sofa.

He was still in excellent condition, despite his training and work being far less rigorous than what HYDRA had required. He needed a certain minimum of muscle mass to counter-balance the prosthetic arm, at least. He'd seen worse scars than his own; Stark had told him that cosmetic surgery might be able to remove most of them. It wasn't so much how they looked as how they felt, and what they represented--a numb, unhealing reminder of what HYDRA had done to him.

Steve settled on the couch on his left and nestled close, just laying his arm around Bucky's shoulders. His other hand came to rest on Bucky's left hand where it rested on his knee.

"Is this okay?"

Bucky nodded. Steve ran his fingers slowly up the bare metal to Bucky's shoulder and back down again.

"I always think it's going to be cold, but it's not."

Bucky risked a glance at Steve, who smiled and curled his fingers around Bucky's, flesh to metal. "Feels like it's a little warmer than body temperature. The fingers are cooler than the shoulder, though."

Bucky hesitated. "When they froze me, it hurt like hell. It got cold faster than the rest of me, and it was like--remember how kids used to tease each other about licking a metal pole, in the winter, that maybe your tongue would stick to it? It was like that. And then it was still cold when they'd wake me up…." He tried and failed to suppress a shudder at the memory.

"I'm sorry, Buck. I still have dreams about crashing the Valkyrie, but I don't remember what it was like to go under. I woke up in that fake room they built for me, not in a lab."

Steve lifted Bucky's hand to his lips and turned it over to press a kiss to the palm. How could he treat it as if it were just a hand, just Bucky? Because he's Steve, answered a voice from deeper inside him. Bucky didn't protest when Steve's lips touched his neck, pressing light kisses just above the curve of the metal, and when Steve kissed his cheek, he turned toward him, seeking to pick up where he'd interrupted them.

Bucky did his best to be proactive while still letting Steve take the lead. Fortunately for him, Steve seemed to be in no hurry. This kiss was about warmth and breath, texture and tenderness, more than just lips and tongue. Bucky was acutely aware of the heat of Steve's nearness, the scents of coffee and cinnamon he'd picked up earlier, the pressure of Steve's hand on his own. That hand, steady and broad, never left his metal hand, even as the kiss deepened and Steve, groaning, got his first taste of Bucky.

By the time they broke apart, Bucky was gripping Steve's neck just as hard as Steve was gripping his, and they were both panting. "Could we take this to the bedroom?" Bucky asked, before he could think twice about it. "I'd like more room."

Bucky sat down on the bed, but Steve didn't. He just stood there for a moment, one hand nervously rubbing the back of his neck."I'm gonna take my jeans off, if that's okay." 

Bucky nodded, figured he'd better say something explicit. "Yeah, that's good."

He couldn't take his eyes off Steve as he untied the drawstring of his pants and shimmied them down his legs, leaving a pair of snug grey briefs behind. Leave it to Steve Rogers to wear briefs under sweatpants. Bucky had a vague memory, pierced by a few shaky images like frames of old film, of *wanting* a Steve who was short, scrawny, hollow-chested, prone to wheezing, easily bruised. It was hard to connect those memories with the man who now stood before him, all but naked, unblemished skin over perfect muscles and a sizable bulge in his drawers. Bucky felt his own arousal trembling on the edge of self-doubt.

Then Steve stepped closer and knelt in front of Bucky, so that Bucky was looking down at him. He looked down into shy, hopeful, steady blue eyes that he remembered, yes, he remembered, and then they were kissing again, Steve's arms around his waist and both Bucky's hands weaving into Steve's hair.

"I'll take off my underwear if you'll take off your pants," Steve said when they broke for air.

"I got a better idea." Bucky rolled backward onto the bed. "You take off my pants and I'll take off your drawers."

Grinning, Steve pounced on Bucky and then rolled so they were side by side. He was still wrestling with Bucky's loose cargo pants when Bucky got his hand around Steve's cock.

Steve's hands fell away, and he let out a satisfying groan. Bucky stroked his cock slowly, admiring the length and girth of it, the way it filled his hand, the velvet texture of the skin and the glistening drop at the tip.

"Bucky," Steve said presently. He sounded kind of desperate. "Wanna touch you, too."

Steve's cock quivered when Bucky let go long enough to shuck off his pants and kick them off the bed. Steve beat him to the punch with his underwear and nearly ripped them in his eagerness. It was like being teenagers again, a happy fumble of hands everywhere and kisses that roamed from mouth to jaw to neck to chest and back again, little grunts and groans and thrusts and wriggles, until they were locked together, mouth to mouth, Bucky's hand on Steve's cock and Steve's on Bucky's, sliding downhill together faster and faster until they crashed, Steve, Bucky, into water that was sweet and warm and safe.

Steve rolled away, chuckling breathlessly as he looked down at himself. "You're all over me, Buck."

"Yeah, well, the feeling's mutual." They were both spattered with come, thighs, belly, hands. Bucky stretched out his left hand, let it drop. "I don't think I can walk."

Still chuckling, Steve got to his feet and staggered off to the bathroom, coming back with a wet cloth and a dry towel. Already clean, he mopped up Bucky with the warm wet cloth and then dried him off, leaving kisses on clean skin that made Bucky twitch.

He managed to sit up, crossing his legs and shoving his hair back with both hands. "Why didn't we do that seventy-five years ago?" was what came out of his mouth.

"Patriarchy. Sexism. Homophobia," Steve answered promptly. Bucky laughed out loud and wondered when was the last time he'd done that.

Steve was propped on one elbow, glowing even more beautifully with post-coital satisfaction. Maybe he didn't look entirely satisfied, though--in fact, he was still hard, or hard again. "Um, Stevie--"

"Yeah?"

"You're--" Words were still difficult sometimes, especially when it was a question of getting the tone right. He gestured to Steve's fully-raised flag.

"Yeah, well." He seemed almost embarrassed, the punk. "It's a side effect of the serum. I don't have to go more than once to feel happy, but I *can*." Steve's lips curled up in a very un-Captain-American smile. "Sometimes five or six times." One hand stroked casually up the underside of his cock, open-palmed. "How about you? You got the serum, too, you've got the strength and speed…." He actually waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Bucky looked down at himself. Flesh hand on his right knee, metal hand on his left, legs crossed as if he were gonna meditate. And a flare at the base of his belly that he hadn't been expecting.

"I dunno, Steve." He grinned. "Let's find out."


End file.
